Pam had not arrived when Hillary Dunn closed the door. Nor had Phil, though he hurried in seconds later. Taking one of the chairs that ringed the room, he stayed a comfortable distance from Susan. His message was clear; she was on her own.
Susan took a seat at the end of the table and thanked the six there for meeting on such short notice. She added a note of condolence to one of the men, who had just returned to town after his sister's funeral, and it wasn't mere gesture. Bald-headed Harold LaPierre was the library director. He was bookish and fair-minded, and while their paths never crossed socially, they had a good working relationship. Susan liked him. Aside from Hillary and Pam, he was her closest ally.
She began by distributing copies of the e-mail she had sent parents on Friday, trying not to be discouraged when several of the men quickly pushed the sheets aside. She explained her rationale for the mailing--that she wanted parents hearing directly from her about what had happened and what she was doing about it. She paused to invite reaction from board members. Getting none, she described the brainstorming she'd done with the nurse and the counselor, and the meetings they planned to hold on Monday with students. When she had finished, she paused again. No reaction this time, either.
"I'd like your feedback," she finally said. "My goal is to be direct. I don't want the grapevine turning this into something it isn't. Besides, tackling it head-on gives us an opportunity to discuss issues that are timely. National studies show that teenage pregnancy is on the rise."
"Is that s'posed to excuse these girls?" asked Duncan Haith, his Maine accent thick, his bushy white eyebrows pulled down. She knew him to be the curmudgeon of the group, but to start off this way was unnerving.
Refusing to show fear, she said, "Absolutely not. I'm just citing a trend and suggesting that the timing of this can be turned to good use. My biggest worry is copycat behavior. I'm meeting with the faculty early tomorrow. We'll coordinate student discussions throughout the day." She looked around, waited. "Are you ... comfortable with this? I'm open to other ideas."
"But it's too late," Duncan complained, slapping the paper with the back of his hand. "You already told the world. That was not a good move." He shot Phil a look. "Did you approve this?"
Phil shrugged. "We couldn't sweep the problem under the rug."
"Why not?"
Phil gestured for Susan to go on.
"Rumors were already spreading," she said.
Duncan scowled. "So now, instead of a few people talking about it, everyone is? What's the point a' that?"
Not wanting to argue, Susan appealed to the others. Thankfully, Hillary Dunn came to her aid. Wife of the town meeting moderator and mother of three, she was originally from the Midwest, an outsider like Susan. "I see her point, Mr. Haith," she said now. "If people are going to talk, you want them to know the facts."
"But they didn't even get all the information," Duncan blustered. "This e-mail does not mention the names of the girls."
Susan suspected he knew the names, but she gave them anyway. If he wanted her to squirm, she would squirm. That was the easy part. The hard part was projecting command enough to make the board see her as the principal of the school, not the mother of one of the girls involved. She was wearing brown today---fuchsia heart, be still!--good solid earth tones, right down to her scarf.
"I didn't include names in the e-mail," she said respectfully, "because my priority is that the school community know what's happened, and that they know we're taking steps to make sure it doesn't happen again. The identity of the girls is secondary."
"Well, I'm sure you'd like that to be true," Carl Morgan remarked in a gravelly voice. He had headed the Perry & Cass accounting department before retiring and still prepared taxes for many Zaganackians. While he was known to be more reasonable than Duncan Haith, had it been April, he'd have been a bear. "We're talking about your daughter and her two closest friends, right?"
"Yes."
"No boys involved?"
Susan smiled politely. "Of course there were, but it's not my place to give out their names. We're focusing on the girls--in this case, on pact behavior."
"Bad word," muttered Thomas Zimmerman, a Realtor.
"Group behavior, then," Susan said.
"But explain it, please," Carl asked gruffly. "Why did they do this? You don't discuss that in your e-mail."
She hadn't felt it necessary there. Here she said, "They did it because they love children, and because, acting together, telling themselves that this was their thing, they were able to override what they'd been taught. That's what pact behavior is about."
"But why these girls?" Carl went on. "They're achievers."
"Maybe that's why," Susan reasoned. "Being achievers gave them the confidence to think they could pull this off."
Duncan sat forward. "So you'll confront this issue openly at school, and you'll keep your fingers crossed that your students listen, but what about these girls?"
"Oh, they'll be there."
"No." He laced his fingers. "I'm talking about punishment. Since you've gone public with this, don't we need a public response? They shouldn't get off scot-free."
Susan was startled. "They'll be living with the consequences of their behavior for the rest of their lives. But punishment? You mean, like detention? Community service?"
"I was thinking expulsion, or at the very least suspension."
"Expulsion would be illegal. And suspension? For getting pregnant?"
"Why not? My reading of the handbook says that the principal has the discretion to impose suspension. Or can't you do that he-ya because of your own involvement?"
Susan fought a rising anger. "Oh, I can do it, and I would, if it made sense. I've suspended students for bullying, for writing on the bathroom walls, for any number of infractions that involve harming someone or something, but there's nothing in the handbook that outlaws pregnancy. And who is the victim here? Their unborn babies? If that's the case, suspension is counterproductive. The idea is to let these girls finish their education so that they can make something of their lives. Wouldn't that be best for the babies?"
"But what's best for the rest of us?" Duncan asked, bushy brows raised. "We don't condone this kind of thing. Nathaniel Hawthorne had it right. They should wear a scarlet letter."
The remark was over the top. Susan couldn't let it go unanswered. "Nathaniel Hawthorne also came from Salem, which bowed to crowd hysteria and hanged innocent women." She tried to stay cool. "Singling girls out doesn't solve the problem. Communication does. That's why we're discussing this openly. We're putting the downside of teenage pregnancy front and center. We're giving parents reasons to carry on a dialogue with their kids."
"Like you did not?"
Susan took a tempering breath. "Oh, I did."
"Before or after your daughter became pregnant?"
"Mr. Haith," Hillary Dunn scolded softly, "you're being harsh."
He looked around innocently. "Are none of you as upset as me? Cripes, what was the point of her school clinic if not to prevent this?"
Susan glanced at Phil. Legs sprawled, arms crossed, he didn't meet her gaze.
Fine. She faced Duncan. "The goal of the clinic is to give students an alternative when they can't get help at home--and yes, it's for education. Unfortunately, what happened with my daughter wasn't for lack of education. All these girls knew what they were doing."
"So who is to blame?"
Susan couldn't answer.
"Isn't it a mother's job to know when her daughter's headed for trouble?" he asked.
Of course, it was a personal attack. But if Phil's forwarded e-mails were any indication, she'd have to get used to that.
Refusing to blink, she said, "My daughter and I talk all the time. But when a seventeen-year-old wants to hide something, she can be pretty good at it."
"So we just"--he tossed a hand--"chalk off parental responsibility because that parent may not see something? What about drug use?"
"With drugs, there are p
hysical signs a parent can look for," Susan said, "but intent to become pregnant? If I'd seen anything--guessed anything--I'd have done my best to stop it. Believe me, Mr. Haith, I know what these girls are in for, and, yes, that's on a personal level. I also know how bad this looks for the town."
The door opened and Pam slipped into the room. On her way to a seat, she touched the shoulders of several fellow board members. Barely looking at Susan, she shrugged out of her coat and sat.
Susan imagined she didn't want to be part of the discussion. But Hillary Dunn promptly turned to her. "What is your husband's take on this?"
Seeming surprised to be called on so soon, Pam took a minute to organize her thoughts. When she spoke, she was poised. "He's upset. The company stands for responsibility. He feels these girls were irresponsible."
"Do you agree?"
"Totally."
Susan agreed, too. No damage there.
But Hillary didn't let Pam off the hook. "You're the only one of us who has a daughter the same age as these girls. Are you comfortable with what Ms. Tate is doing to keep their behavior from spreading?"
"For now? Yes."
"How does your daughter feel about what these girls did?"
Pam remained composed. "She's as shocked as we are."
"Have you heard from other parents?"
"Some. They're worried. But they appreciated Susan's e-mail."
A new voice came then. Neal Lombard headed the Chamber of Commerce. A pleasant-looking man with a benign moon face, he had four children. All were in their twenties, which meant that Susan hadn't taught any of them. Mention drugs, though, and teachers talked. More than one of the Lombard sons were known users. Had that made Neal more compassionate? Apparently not.
"What Mr. Haith is saying," he offered quietly, "is that an e-mail may not be enough. We ought to consider stronger steps to let people know we don't condone this behavior. I may be speaking out of turn here, because I wasn't a member of the board that voted on your appointment, Ms. Tate, but there's an argument to be made that you ought to take a leave of absence until this all quiets down."
Susan hadn't expected that. It took her breath away--but only for a second. "With due respect, that would be my last option."
"I was just thinking of what happened in Gloucester," the man said.
"So am I," Susan assured him, "but Gloucester was different. There was a spike in teen pregnancy and the principal called it a pact when there was none. He resigned under pressure for jumping to conclusions and creating hysteria. I'm not doing that. These girls did form a pact. We have to address it. Parents trust that I'll give them straight talk."
"Can you do that, with your daughter involved?"
"Absolutely."
"Look," Duncan chided, "it's a matter of credibility. I was here when your appointment was first raised, Ms. Tate, so I know your history. Back then, it was a selling point: unmarried mother defeats the odds. Now it's a drawback. Mr. Lombard may have a point."
"Is it a drawback?" she asked quietly. "I can be honest. I can tell students firsthand the downside of being a teenage mother."
"You're missing the point, Ms. Tate. What kind of role model are you? Your daughter is following in your footsteps. Is that what we want the rest of our students to do? Unless you think what you did was okay?"
Susan was offended. "You wouldn't ask that if you'd heard some of the discussions I've had with my daughter this week, or last year, or the year before that. I don't approve of teenage pregnancies. That's one of the reasons I pushed for a school clinic--and, in fairness, we don't know the number of pregnancies the clinic has prevented."
"It didn't prevent three," said Neal Lombard, "one being your daughter's."
"Which puts me in a position of greater credibility with our kids. I can speak to them as one who's been there. I'd like to be given that chance."
Chapter 14
"They wouldn't fire you," Lily said.
Susan wasn't so sure. Phil had been less than supportive at the meeting, and her job was in his hands. But his job was in the hands of the school board. If he felt that sentiment ran strongly against her, that if a second vote were taken, the board would vote to let her go, he would fire her first. Their friendship didn't go that far.
Nor, apparently, did Pam's, which was the one that really hurt. What was it she'd said when asked if she was pleased with how Susan was handling the situation? For now, yes. Not exactly a ringing endorsement. And when the meeting adjourned, she busied herself talking with members. As signs went, it didn't bode well. Susan's fears only deepened during the short drive home.
"Maybe not now," she told Lily, "but next week? Next month? There seems to be an obsession about who is to blame."
"Well, that's a no-brainer, since you weren't involved in the decision."
"Not a no-brainer at all." Susan reached for the teakettle. "Here's a basic lesson in Mothering 101, sweetheart. The buck stops here."
------
Monday morning, praying that her faculty would be less judgmental, Susan got to school in advance of the seven o'clock meeting. She set out coffee and doughnuts in the hope of mustering good will, but most of her teachers dashed into the small amphitheater with seconds to spare.
Was she nervous? Not of leading the meeting. She had gotten over that two years before, after realizing that her freckles mattered less than the professionalism she displayed. As long as she had an agenda, she was fine. And she certainly had an agenda today.
That said, she was nervous as hell. If she was fighting for her job, she needed the support of her faculty. All eyes were on her as she began.
"Thanks for coming so early. I met with the school board yesterday. We're going ahead with the plan to reach the entire student body. You've all read the e-mail I sent Friday. You should have also received the one I sent last night with the change in today's class schedule and bullet points for discussion." Lest some hadn't printed it out, she took a stack and passed it around. "The focus should be on the risk of teenage pregnancy and the danger of pacts. I've elaborated on both on page two." She gave a small smile. "I'm betting there are still questions. Please. Ask."
There were a few easy ones. When are the girls due? Are all three keeping their babies? Will they be marrying the boys? Susan gave succinct answers to each.
In the brief awkwardness that followed, Susan waited, then smiled. "Go ahead. Be blunt. I can take it."
"Do we give the names of the girls?" someone asked.
"Only if you feel it's necessary for the discussion," Susan replied. "Most everyone knows that my daughter is one of the girls. I'm close to the other two families and would have you protect them, but our first priority is protecting the rest of our students. If they ask, you tell."
"Will the girls be in class this week?"
"Yes."
"Won't that be hard for them?"
"Yes."
"What about the boys?"
Susan thought for a minute. "I'd downplay mention of them. Some of our students will know who they are."
"Do you?"
"I know one name. I'm sure you all know the same one."
"How do you feel about this?"
Susan was slow to speak as she waded through different levels of emotion. "I'm upset," she finally said, but it didn't seem enough. "As principal and a mother. These weren't accidental pregnancies. We don't want to glorify them." And still that didn't seem enough. "Some of you may be thinking that I'm taking a hard line because of my own past. I honestly don't think so. I'm not punishing these girls. I just want to discourage others from copying them."
"What if students ask about you?"
"I'll be going from class to class while you discuss this. They can ask me themselves."
Susan did little else over the next two days. She talked with students in the classroom, the lunchroom, the halls, even the gym, answering their questions as honestly as she could. There were questions about her own experience, often relating to whether schools talked about
birth control "back then," but most of the questions focused on the girls.
Same with the faculty. Talking with them before and after classes, she sensed that they agreed with what she was doing. She never got the slightest whiff, not even from Raymond Dunbar, that she wasn't a fit principal. Nor did parents suggest it. Their notes were overwhelmingly supportive, far more positive this week than the weekend before. They liked what she was doing. As she had hoped, open discussions in school were leading to discussions at home.
She answered every e-mail she received, working late each night. And all the while, as she scrolled through her inbox, she wondered if Robbie Boone's parents knew. Sooner or later, they would. They might e-mail or, worse, ambush her as she climbed from her car at the end of the day.
By Wednesday, though, she was starting to feel she was over the hump. Classes were back to normal, and though she continued to make herself accessible, students were more interested in the holiday basketball tournament that Zaganack hosted each year than they were in Lily, Mary Kate, and Jess.
Then came Thursday and the Gazette. There was no article; as promised, Phil had made his call. The paper's editorial was another matter.
It's time to talk about family values. Zaganack has always taken the high moral road. Call us traditional, but we have the lowest divorce rate in the state, and violent crime here is rare. Our churches raise strong voices in this community, and we listen.
Now we learn about three girls who didn't. Three girls who are pregnant and happy about it. Three girls who have no plans to marry.
You might call this part of a national epidemic, an erosion of family values. But Zaganackians have a culture of responsibility that was supposed to protect us. Why did it fail?
These girls claim they acted alone. Did they? Do we blame the boys they were with, mere teenagers themselves? No. There are people who should have taught these girls right from wrong. Those people failed. They failed to teach. Failed to supervise. Failed to set an example.
Not My Daughter Page 14